


Turnips and Probably Potatoes

by cristianoronaldo



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 02:35:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1923486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cristianoronaldo/pseuds/cristianoronaldo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alvaro and Isco's relationship through Nacho's eyes. Cameos from various Real Madrid players.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turnips and Probably Potatoes

**Author's Note:**

> IMPORTANT: 
> 
> "this and this and this" belongs to Madeline miller. I am forever grateful for the song of achilles. That book means the world to me. 
> 
> haven't even read this over for flow because i have to take a shower. let me know about the shitty parts thanks

Alvaro and Nacho were standing in line with their groceries. Nacho was weighing himself down with two cartons of milk, three bananas, and a plastic jar of strawberry protein powder. Alvaro was carrying the turnips.

 

“Isn’t that Isco?” He ignored Nacho’s jealous glares-- it wasn’t Alvaro’s fault he decided to carry that much-- and pointed rather obviously at the man a few checkout lines away. He was buying oranges.

 

“Yeah.” Nacho moved up in line and struggled to set everything down on the conveyer belt.

 

“I bet he has loads of trouble finding a date,” Alvaro said sourly. He added the turnips to the conveyer belt behind Nacho’s selection of groceries.

 

Nacho rolled his eyes and took out his wallet. “God. You are the literal bane of my existence. Always whining.”

 

He continued to stare at their mutual, distant friend. “Do you think he understands how good the scruff looks?”

 

“No, I’m sure it’s there completely by accident.”

 

“You are a penis.”

 

“Whatever. Get your turnips so we can get home.”

 

The bag boy was cute. He kept making eyes at Alvaro but the dark-haired, insolent man-child stared around the grocery store disinterestedly. “Do you think he likes turnips?”

 

“Yeah. Sure. Turnips and probably potatoes.” The bag boy was grinning. At least he thought Nacho was funny.

 

Alvaro stared him down. “I am asking you a serious question.”

 

“You know, I’d appreciate a pity laugh every once in awhile.”

 

“And I would appreciate a serious answer to my serious questions.”

 

“About turnips.”

 

“Yes, about--” Alvaro choked the air in front of him with his hands. “About turnips.”

 

Nacho smirked. The turnips were bagged separately, so he tossed the bag to Alvaro. “Do you think you can handle carrying those on your own or are you going to whine about that too?”

 

They ran into Isco on their way out. Alvaro stood expectantly at Nacho’s elbow, waiting for the unnecessary introduction. Finally, after a few seconds of conversing about the most recent Real Madrid game, Nacho shut his eyes for a half-second like he was mentally preparing himself for something he was going to regret.

 

“You’ve met Alvaro, right?”

 

Isco’s eyes narrowed for a moment. Trying to remember. “Course, I have. I think it was Dani’s barbecue last spring?”

 

Alvaro just smiled. He swayed on his feet for a second, just staring. And Isco’s lips curled into an embarrassed smile. A blush crept up his cheeks.

 

Nacho jabbed Alvaro in the ribs. He grinned foolishly a moment longer before nodding, saying, “Yeah, it was Dani’s barbecue. You spilled soda all over your pants.”

 

Isco blushed again, but he was laughing at himself. He adjusted the bags on his wrists, red marks just starting to purple where the straps had been. “That’s right. I think I remember you being the one to bump me though.”

 

Alvaro shrugged unabashedly. “It probably was. Nacho says I’m careless with my limbs.”

 

“And his tongue.”

 

Isco’s eyebrows shot up his forehead as he took the comment in a way Nacho most definitely did not intend for him to take it.

 

“Alright, I’m done with both of you,” he announced loudly, strolling out the doors with a joking smile over his shoulder for Isco, a narrowing of his eyes and a brief shake of his head for Alvaro.

 

“Later,” Alvaro said with feeling.

 

He caught up to Nacho in the parking lot. “I won’t let you play with him.”

 

“Jesus. What’s with you and the sexual comments today?”

 

Nacho stuffed the groceries into the already full trunk. He closed it with difficulty; Alvaro didn’t move to help him, just stood back a few feet and watched him with growing interest as the trunk kept popping up to jab him in the ribs.

 

“I mean it,” he said, dusting off his hands. He really had to clean the car. He always had to clean the car. “I know what you do.” He slid into the driver’s seat and waited for Alvaro to join him on the passenger’s side before continuing, “You love them until they’re boring, and then you move on.”

 

“What-- I don’t--” Alvaro started to protest, silenced almost immediately by Nacho’s hand.

 

“No, you don’t mean any harm by it, but it’s what you do, and it makes you look like an absolute infant. Isco’s my friend. Our friend. If you’re interested, you’re interested, but if you think of him like you think of everyone else--” Nacho cut off, frustrated, knowing he was never going to get through to his friend. He loved him to death, but sometimes he felt like bringing him there-- to death. “Don’t, okay? Don’t think of him like you think of everyone else.”

 

“I won’t,” Alvaro groaned, as he did.

 

+

 

It was raining. They were standing outside the restaurant waiting for everyone to leave, saying their goodbyes. Girlfriends, wives, husbands, and boyfriends were milling around searching for the hands of their other halves, tugging at the fingers when they finally found it with a little impatient look. Time to leave.

 

Nacho’s girlfriend was giving him her best impatient glare. He gestured. Just another moment.

 

Isco was in the parking lot. Smiling, hair falling over his face, grinning so wide Nacho could taste it a hundred feet away.

 

And this, the rain dripping from his face. And this, the way he could see his collarbone shining. And this and this and this, the way he loved him.

 

Alvaro stepped in front of Isco. He was laughing too. He had that laugh, the one dripping with honey. And the eyes, the eyes that bled gold. Immortal in his beauty, he would never-- could never-- be beaten.

 

Nacho looked away. He tugged gently on his girlfriend's fingers. Time to go. Are you sure? Yes.

 

+

 

The sounds they made when they kissed, and the sound he made when Alvaro had him over for dinner, like he was trying to laugh through being punched in the stomach. The wind knocked out of him. The something knocked out of him.

 

"Do you think he likes turnips?" Alvaro asked, as he chopped them up. They were his favorite.

 

"Turnips and probably potatoes," he said, remembering.

 

Alvaro looked at him like he was crazy. "What do potatoes have to do with anything?"

 

Before Nacho could look at him and remind him of the beginning of everything, he remembered himself. It wasn’t his place.

 

(Time to go. Are you sure? Yes.)

 

"So do you think he does?"

 

"Hm? Does what?"

 

"Like turnips."

 

"Hate them," Isco said from the doorway. He was wiping his wet hands on a towel from the bathroom. Smiling. He looked good in black.

 

Alvaro looked at him for a moment. "I forgive you."

 

"That's big of you." He picked up the basket of grapes and walked to the kitchen table.

 

This, the way his shoulders slumped. And this, the way he held his breath when Alvaro spoke. This and this and this. Some boys don't know how to love.

 

"I should go," Nacho said, formally. "Enjoy your dinner."

 

"What?" Alvaro looked confused.

 

He wanted them all together. He didn't understand not getting what he wanted. And it wasn’t his fault. He was just too beautiful to be denied. People like him were born beautiful, lived beautifully, and even in death, their graves were decorated, marked by the passage of footsteps and time.

 

Isco almost looked sorry, or maybe it was just the way the light hit his eyes. "See you at Dani's Friday then?"

 

"Can't. Asier's on Sunday though for the game."

 

This, the way he smiled and showed his teeth. And this, his laugh a constant echo. This and this and this. No. Some boys don't know how to love.

 

+

 

"You weren't there." His voice was easy and pleasant. Familiar if not for the eyes. They tested him.

 

"What's that?"

 

His girlfriend was always on the brink of pulling him away. He wished she would. He loved her dark hair and dark eyes and quiet breath; hated her hesitancy when depriving him of simple pleasures; loved her like a fire at dawn. She clung his arm now.

 

"At Asier's. For the game."

 

"Oh, yeah." He blinked. Maybe Alvaro hadn't been there to entertain. "I couldn't. We had something planned." He gestured to his girlfriend.

 

This-- No. And this, the glance over his shoulder. He wanted to touch Alvaro's hand and show him what to love. His smile, his hands, the way he crinkled his nose when he smiled too hard. Grabbing Alvaro's hand, he would say, this and this and this.

 

"I wish you wouldn't do that," she said when Isco turned away. Her words were clipped, eyes darting dangerously around his face to gauge his response. She did this when she was angry, tested the waters. He wanted to tell her that it was alright, that he would love her in anger, that he would love her in tears. That when she lashed out he would take the hit.

 

He said her name now and no more.

 

"Still?"

 

"Yes. But you too."

 

"You can't split this kind of thing."

 

Time to go?

 

No.

 

Are you sure?

 

Yes.

 

And that, their silent communication, was something he would drink to forget and sleep to remember when she was gone.

 

Later, when Alvaro had his hand in the chip bowl and Isco was looking at him fondly, Nacho drew a breath and remembered his place.

 

Isco bent to place a soft kiss on Alvaro's forehead. Brushed back his hair. He wanted to live and die in the look they exchanged. Bury himself alive in the feeling that could set him free.

 

+

 

The sounds they made. The walls were thin. But worse still, the smell of Isco in the morning. Like oranges and vanilla and Alvaro. On the towels in the kitchen and the rug in the bathroom. On his own hands. No matter what he washed, no matter how many times he washed it, no matter what disgusting overpowering scent he used to try and drown it out, it lingered. He lingered. Not just in the doorway. Both feet now and tumbling headfirst.

 

Breakfast. Alvaro wasn’t awake yet. Nacho imagined he'd been fucked into oblivion. He almost gagged when he smelled oranges again.

 

Isco joined him at the table. Alvaro's green boxers and no shirt. He was barefoot. This, the feeling so intense that only blood was deeper. The bruise on his shoulder, the silence he carried with him. This and this and this. Kisses he wished he could bestow and laughter he wished he could draw forth.  His pale chest and the fine blue veins beneath his skin.

 

He gave Nacho a sleepy smile. "Donuts? You shouldn't have."

 

"Thought you two might appreciate it. Also I'm trying to butter Alvaro up. He needs to stop mixing the white shirts with the red ones."

 

He smiled again, and Nacho was trying to hold on to the little resolve he had struggled to find himself. His girlfriend called, and he stepped outside to take it. Always on the brink of pulling him away.

 

"Will you be there Friday?" She still asked like she wasn’t sure what she could demand of him. Anything, he told her silently. Anything. (You can't split this kind of thing. Just not that).

 

"Of course."

 

"Thank you," she said with feeling. As if he could deny her anything. "Talk later then."

 

"Okay."

 

A long pause. "Okay."

 

+

 

"You know what I wish?"

 

Nacho was standing alone outside, drinking a beer and waiting for the others to leave. "Hm?"

 

The way he stood with his hands in his pockets. Here comes trouble. "I wish you wouldn't run so fast out the door whenever I come over." Oranges. Almost gagging.

 

"I don't--" He looked at Isco for a moment, then back through the glass sliding door at Alvaro. He was reaching his hand deep into the cooler filled with ice. Removing his hand and flicking water at Asier.

 

"I don't," he finished, turning back to Isco with resolve. "I just want to give you some time together. I don't want to constantly third wheel."

 

"You're not a third wheel."

 

God. Don't make that sound like poetry. "Anyone would be when the two of you are together."

 

Isco looked back through the glass sliding door. "You guys are roommates. You do everything together-- you do everything for him. I don't want to shut you out."

 

His hand curled into a loose fist at his side. He scanned the tables outside, looked over his shoulder through the sliding door. Where is she. Time to go.

 

"Have you seen Maria?"

 

"No. Are you okay?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Are you sure?"

 

Yes. He forced a smile, clapped Isco on the shoulder, and went back inside. He dumped the rest of his beer in the sink and used the bottle as an excuse to escape to the garage.

 

He wasnt alone. Asier was sorting bottles. "Make sure you recycle," he said wearily. "The rest of them don't recycle, and it's driving me crazy."

 

"Okay," he said. He put his bottle in the recycling bin and leaned against the wall of the garage.

 

Asier looked at him. "Who are you avoiding?"

 

The happy couple. "No one. Just tired. I've got a headache."

 

Asier looked like he wanted to say something, but true to his character, he looked down and continued sorting bottles. The fine blue wires sizzling beneath his skin were nothing like Isco's.

 

"You can say you were helping me," he said at last.

 

Nacho watched him leave.

 

+

 

"I wish I didn't have to do everything. I wish you would stop acting like people exist to clean up your messes."

 

"My messes? Seriously? What kind of messes do you clean up for me?"

 

The walls were thin. Nacho was washing dishes. They were in Alvaro's room with their toes buried in the thick carpet, yelling though they were close enough to whisper.

 

"I don't. I just wish you wouldn't act like it's my job. Like it's everyone's job."

 

"And what kind of messes do I have anyway? I don't have any messes." Like they were having two different conversations.

 

The door slammed. The hardened steel in Isco's eyes as he walked past the kitchen was impossible to miss. Sorry, he said, with downcast eyes.

 

Wanting to reach out and bleed into him like a kiss.

 

"Are you okay?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Are you sure?"

 

He hesitated with his hand on the door. No answer, just the click as the lock fell into place behind him.

 

Alvaro appeared when the door had closed. He was small and angry and sad. He looked at Nacho expectantly. It wasn't his fault; it was just in his nature to lean.

 

"Is he gone." It wasnt a question. Alvaro knew that he was.

 

Yes.

 

"Is he coming back?" The real question.

 

"I think that's up to you."

 

"You told me one time, not to think of him like I think of everyone else. And I don't. I don't."  

 

"Okay."

 

"Okay," Alvaro said softly. It was the only time Nacho ever saw him crumble.

                                                           

+

 

It wasn't in his flawed nature to remove thorns. When Isco didn't return that night or the next night or the next, Alvaro grew worried.

 

"You have to talk to him."

 

Nacho was watching TV. He didn't expect the ambush. "I-- what?"

 

Alvaro repeated himself insistently, all wide eyes and pink lips, using all the heavenly devices in his arsenal. "You have to."

 

"I don't have to do anything." He pulled the blanket around his shoulders and huddled into the corner of the couch, keeping his eyes trained on the television. He would not. He would not think about the smell of oranges and vanilla and Alvaro all over.

 

"I'm miserable without him. Can't you see that?"

 

"You lost him. You go find him again. It's not my problem."

 

"But." He looked genuinely dazed. "But all my problems are your problems."

 

That, unfortunately, was true. Nacho let the blanket fall from his shoulders. He turned the volume down. "And what could I possibly say to him that you couldn't say better?"

 

"You've always been better with words."

 

"Alvaro," he said.

 

"See." He searched Nacho's features desperately like Maria often did, looking for some kind of reason to stay. "You've always been better with words."        

 

+

 

"Thanks for coming." She looked spectacular. She always looked spectacular, but that night she walked in more beauty than he thought possible.

 

"Of course." She was still surprised when he came through. Always half-expecting his failure-- purely because of her own cynicism and intelligence-- she never expected he would show, only hoped.

 

"How is he?"

 

"Alvaro?"

 

A slight, tense nod.

 

He shrugged, uncomfortable in the suit. "Alive."

 

For a moment, her eyes were unguarded, and he wanted to take her hand and tell her not to love things because-- one day they will strike you where you love them most, and you will crumble.

 

"Are you okay?"

 

He spotted Isco across the room. He looked good in black. Jesus. Fuck. He looked good in black. A bitter flood coursed through him, and he excused himself hurriedly.

 

He watched from the hallway, drink in hand, as Alvaro approached him looking polished. He was weak for a moment, reaching with his hand, letting it hover in the air for half a second before dropping it hurriedly to his side. He said something, and Isco's eyes narrowed. His lips parted, eyes hardened to the burning steel they were the day he walked out. He was preparing himself. And then Alvaro spoke again. He was quiet and selfish and unkind, but to Isco he was--

 

This, the way his eyes softened. Alvaro fell into his embrace when Isco moved closer.

 

"You shouldn't hide at a wedding." It was Xabi, standing near the staircase behind him. Champagne in one hand, the other adjusting his red tie.

 

"What's with you and Asier being so goddamn nosy?"

 

"That's hilarious." He had perfected the wealthy man's swagger, perfectly arched eyebrows and a slight vein of contempt in every expression. "Because we're the least nosy people you know."

 

Admittedly, it was true. Asier didn't have a scheming bone in his body, and Xabi just. It wasn’t gentlemanly to spoil someone else's surprise. If he couldn't do it while adjusting his massively expensive cuff links, he wasn’t going to do it at all.

 

"Whatever," Nacho said finally.

 

"It might help if you paid attention to your girlfriend." He continued to sip his drink and watch Alvaro and Isco-- hands barely touching, veins, bones burning.

 

"Can you get drunk on a different staircase."

 

"No, actually," he said calmly. "Sergio's on the other end of the hallway and he's..." The vein of contempt opened and flooded his eyes. "...boisterous. I don't do boisterous."

 

"Liar," Nacho muttered nastily, but Xabi pretended not to hear. "And I do pay attention to my girlfriend."

 

"Is that so?" He was highly amused. "Then where is she?"

 

Nacho looked.

 

Time to go?

 

But he hadn't heard.

 

+

 

Her hair was up in a ponytail. Silver earrings, long proud neck. Her lips curled in bitter amusement.

 

"How was the rest of the wedding?" Her finger twitched against the mug of coffee.

 

"Fine. I left early."

 

"And did they enjoy it?"

 

"They talked. They're back together."

 

"Good," she said, and she meant it. "Your brother will pick my stuff up and bring it to my place."

 

They hadn't agreed in words that it was over, but it was over. He didn't resist; there were just certain things that had to be said.

 

"I love you.”

 

She looked at him, eyes no longer seeking approval. "Okay."

 

And later, with Alvaro and Isco at the kitchen table--

 

"How do you put up with him?" Nacho joked, gesturing with his spoon, trying to jab Alvaro's cheek.

 

"I don't know. He's a pain in the ass, but I love him, you know?"

 

Numbly, he kept smiling. "I know."

 

Alvaro was triumphant, poking Isco in the ribs and saying, "He loves me. Did you hear that? He loves me."

 

Time to go. But no one to leave with.

 

Later, at Asier's again. It had become their tradition to hide out in the garage. He didn't know why he kept coming or why Asier kept having people over if they both hid out in the garage the whole time. The motions maybe. The familiarity of being alone in a crowd.

 

"Why do you do this?”

 

He was playing with the glass bottles in the recycling bin again. “Do you really not know the benefits of recycling, Nacho?”

 

“Asshole,” he said mildly. “Hide. Why do you hide?”

 

“I thought we had silently agreed not to touch upon this.”

 

Nacho shrugged. “Whatever,” he said agreeably.

 

It was quiet for a long time, and then Asier started clinking the bottles together again. “I’m sorry about your breakup.”

 

“Are you?”

 

“Yes,” he said sincerely. “She was good for you.”

 

“She was good for me, yes. But people are rarely good for each other.”

 

Asier was quiet again. It was long past when he should have answered when he finally frowned like he’d been thinking the whole time. “You’re right,” he said finally. “People either give or take, never both.” Then, looking at Nacho, “Except maybe Isco.”

 

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t make him out to be a god.”

 

“I’m not the one doing that.”

 

“Jesus. Does everyone know.” It was a terrible habit, like biting his nails, but he saw the other man no matter where he went. When he was tucked in bed at night, he thought of his smile, his lips, the way his back would arch if-- And when he was in the grocery store, he thought about that first day, and he wondered what would happen if he’d never turned and said-- Alvaro. When he was looking at his second half, he saw reflection upon reflection, little bright spots of unfiltered happiness; blinding.

 

“Xabi does. And I do by extension.”

 

If you ever tell anyone,” he said exhaustedly. He stopped there. He didn’t have the energy to make any threats.

 

Asier didn’t blink. “Can I just ask.”

 

He stood on the steps leading up to the house. It would be the last of their meetings in the garage. “Ask what.”

 

“What is it about him?”

 

This, the way his hair falls over his forehead, the way his eyes make the blood pump. The way veins burn like constellations under skin. And this, the smell of him in the morning like oranges and vanilla. His laugh like he’s choking on everything that ever made him cry. This and this and this, he wanted to say, touching Asier’s hand and burning the memories into his flesh. The way he was loved.

 

Finally, “I don’t know.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> AGAIN:   
> "this and this and this" belongs to Madeline miller.
> 
> I am forever grateful for the song of achilles. That book means the world to me. 
> 
> Any questions and/or comments are always welcome. love you all for being patient with me 
> 
> btw i apologize for all the fragments but throwback to when cristiano was answering questions about el clasico and he went "i don't care about barcelona"   
> .....  
> i don't care about complete sentences


End file.
